


Sundays

by feeblehtp



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apartments, College, Fluff, M/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeblehtp/pseuds/feeblehtp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate title: My Neighbor Borrowed My Makeup Because He Got In A Knife Fight by Fall Out Boy</p><p>Sometimes I guess you just gotta knock on your neighbor's door and ask if they have makeup to cover up the knife-fight bruises on your hands before your mom sees. Bonus points if your neighbor is in full-on Lazy Sunday Mode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sundays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pep_Squad_Levi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pep_Squad_Levi/gifts).



> fun story so th(e beginning of th)is actually happened because Pep's life is an "imagine your OTP" prompt
> 
> im on tumblr @thelastrascal come talk to me!

It’s…..sometime on a Sunday, so Patrick is doing Sunday things. This usually involves a lot of blankets, the couch, whatever the fridge has to offer, and watching Netflix while his assignments are placed on the coffee table near his feet (for the illusion of productivity). Today’s not much different, except he exhausted Netflix’s supply of _River Monsters_ last week, so he’s been watching _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia_ for about three hours. He has no idea what season he’s on. He has no idea what time it is, actually. He also doesn’t know if Joe is even still in the apartment or not. If he is, he’s probably napping or studying, because Patrick hasn’t seen him in…..a while? A while. Patrick turns down the volume a little. He’s such a considerate roommate.

           

The episode ends and clicks over to the next one. Patrick glances at his textbook dutifully, but episode’s already past the cold opening and onto the theme, so. That’s that. Maybe after the next one. He settles down a little more firmly on his end of the couch, where he’s created a permanently squashed indent on the cushion. He’s proud of that indent. It took him three years and it’s perfectly shaped to his butt.

           

The doorbell rings, and Patrick suddenly remembers that Joe went out an hour ago for groceries and now probably needs help getting them inside. He pushes pause, and in the _second_ he takes to laugh at Danny DeVito’s frozen face, Jesus Joe, calm down, the doorbell rings three more times and a rapid knocking starts up.

           

“I’m _coming,_ God,” Patrick bitches at the door, shuffling over while holding all his blankets in place. “Did you forget your keys again or--”

 

“Hey, it’s Patrick, right? Can you do me a huge favor?”

 

It’s not Joe.

 

It’s the guy from the apartment next door. Patrick thinks his name is Pete, though he’s not been around him enough to be sure. He and Joe hang out kind of often with Pete (?)’s roommate Andy, but the only time they’ve actually glimpsed him is when he’s leaving the building or, “Hey guys, I just forgot something, I’ll be right out, bye--[slamming door].” Other than that, all Patrick knows about him is he likes loud music (house, rap, metal, r&b, and _Taylor Swift oh my god_ \--as long as it’s loud enough to hear in Patrick’s room) and that he has a tendency to disappear for days at a time.

 

And now he’s at Patrick’s door, looking kind of frantic and really disheveled, and for some reason, wet, and. He’s shirtless. He’s got a lot of tattoos, Patrick thinks, and--

 

Huh. 

 

Nipple piercings.

 

“It’s kind of urgent, dude,” Pete continues as Patrick tries to process the fact that this is in fact, very much Not Joe, and he’s just answered the door on a stranger while swaddled in blankets and wearing his seven-year old boxers patterned with hot dogs  that have a frayed hole in the left ass cheek. Patrick’s pretty sure he still has crumbs on face from the Oreos he ate two hours ago. He wouldn’t even let a delivery guy see him like this, that’s how disgusting he is.

 

Not that Pete’s doing so well, either. His hair and face are drenched (and he’s dripping on Patrick’s carpet), and he’s only got one sock on, the button on his jeans are undone, as well as the belt. On top of that, he kind of looks like a tried to play soccer with a chunk of concrete.

 

“Oh, uh, yeah, what’s up?” He stutters out finally, while trying to figure out if he can inch more out of sight without actually looking like he’s trying to hide behind the door.

 

Unfortunately, Pete takes this as an invitation in and squeezes through the door, heading directly for the bathroom.

 

“So I got in a knife fight and my mom is coming for dinner, like, now, and I need makeup to hide my hands because I’m out,” he says as Patrick trots bewilderedly behind him. He turns around abruptly, so that Patrick almost knocks into him, and holds up two very battered sets of knuckles.

 

“Yikes,” says Patrick.

 

“Right? She’ll kill me,” Pete says over his shoulder as he starts digging in their sink cabinets.

 

Patrick hurriedly wipes his face off, straightens his glasses, and sheds two of the blankets before following Pete into the bathroom. It’s a small space, so he steps into the shower. Over Pete’s bowed head, he desperately tries to flatten his hair and straighten his clothes in the mirror. Oh god, what’s _that_ on his face? The mirror disappears as Pete swings it forward to check that cabinet as well. Shit.

 

“Aha!” Pete crows, producing a bottle of foundation and some concealer. Then he frowns. “Ah, shit, this is too pale, why are you so pale. Do you have bronzer?”

 

Silently Patrick takes the makeup bag from him and digs until he finds some, and hands it over. Pete shoves it back at him and presses the foundation and concealer on him as well.

 

“You gotta do it, man, I can’t do it one-handed. Please?” He leans over to look out the window, which faces the parking lot. “She’s gonna be here any second, dude, please? I only had time for like half a shower, I still need to get dressed. Oh, FUCK,” he bawls suddenly. “I still need to iron my shirt. And I don’t have an iron.”

 

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Patrick says, deciding he’s done being dazed and confused. “Here, stand in the shower.”

           

“Why?”

 

“You’re dripping everywhere. Do you have a straightener? Like a hair one?” He glances at the damp kinky curls currently offending the bathroom tile and tries to remember if they’re always so….curly.

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

Okay, so there’s that.

 

“Use that to iron your shirt. Give me your hands.”

 

It’s quiet in the bathroom while Patrick dabs on the makeup. Pete’s clearly listening for cars, and keeps twisting his head to check.

 

“Stop _moving_ ,” Patrick snaps.

 

“Sorry, sorry.”

 

But that’s worse, because now he can feel Pete watching him methodically apply makeup to his bruised knuckles. Patrick concentrates on Pete’s hands instead. Aside from being chewed up, they’re. They’re nice hands. There’s a couple small tattoos here, too. He’s got callouses on his fingers and they don’t shake, but Patrick holds them steady anyway. He doesn’t know how Pete’s going to hold a fork, though, they look sore as fuck. And he hisses in pain when Patrick smears the makeup with his thumb.

 

“Why do you have makeup, anyway?” Patrick gives him a sharp look.

 

“Why’d you get in a knife fight?”

 

“Okay, fair.” He pauses, then examines his left hand as soon as Patrick drops it. “You’re really good at it though.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

They both jump as the door suddenly slams, and Patrick drops the cotton swab he’s using. He curses and bends over to grab it when--

 

“Hey, Joe, right? Hi, I’m Pete.”

 

Patrick stands up, face burning, to see Joe, laden with grocery bags, staring at them with his mouth open. One shirtless post-knife fight punk and one crusty pajama hobo, holding hands in his bathtub. It’s not usually part of Patrick’s Sunday bum routine.

 

“We’re fine, this is fine,” Patrick blurts. Pete gives him a weird look. Joe, bless him, just nods.

 

“Hi. Nice to meet you, man.” Joe waves his keys at them before turning back towards the kitchen. “I just got, uh, a giant tub of hummus if you want any. I’ll leave you to it.”

 

It’s silent for another couple of moments, before Patrick pulls his towel down from the curtain rod and tosses it over Pete’s head.

 

“For your hair.”

 

“Thanks, man,” Pete mumbles, as Patrick drops his other hand, and starts putting caps back on the makeup.

 

Outside, a car door slams, and Pete freezes, his face still in the towel. Patrick hears a small muffled “fuck.”

 

“Finish drying your hair. And brush it!” He shouts as he jumps out of the tub and sprints to Joe’s closet. He doesn’t have anything nice, but Joe has a lavender button down he wears to temple the one time a year he goes, and that’ll probably fit Pete. He hurtles into his own room and grabs a pair of socks and dashes back to the bathroom, skidding on the hardwood.

 

“Put this on,” he tosses the shirt at Pete, who _didn’t_ brush his hair, the idiot, and pushes Pete to sit on the toilet while he yanks off the odd sock he’s got on and starts shoving Pete’s feet into the fresh pair. “Do you have shoes?”

 

“Mrmf,” Pete says, and _Jesus_ he’s useless, he didn’t undo the top button and now he’s stuck in the neckhole. Patrick undoes the button and drags him up to standing.

 

“Thanks,” Pete gasps. Patrick ignores him and decides that haste outweighs boundaries, and does up Pete’s pants button for him and the belt as well. He hides his blush when he reaches for his Fancy Occasion Cologne, and gives Pete a spray. It’s only a little in his face, but Pete coughs anyway. Wimp.

 

From the hallway, they hear the dim echo of a doorbell, then muffled voices. Pete’s eyes widen in terror and he whips the towel from off his neck, slings it around Patrick’s and uses it to haul him into a smacking kiss. Patrick blinks in shock as he tries to remember if he brushed his teeth that day.

 

Pete pulls back. “You have really soft lips,” Pete says, and cracks a lopsided smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, before literally throwing himself out of the bathtub and skidding out the door. “I owe you one!” He shouts as the door to the apartment slams shut.

 

Patrick stands there confused for a second before hanging the towel back up and straightening up the bathroom, picking up his blanket in the hallway, and cocooning himself in it securely before going to help Joe in the kitchen.

 

Joe looks like he wants to ask, but closes his mouth when Patrick grabs a beer and  pulls the entire tub of hummus towards him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Patrick heard doors opening in the hallway later that night, not that he was listening for them, but no one knocked on theirs.

 

On Tuesday night, Patrick heard The Cure playing a full volume for two hours straight, but the rest of the week was quiet, so Pete could have disappeared again. Maybe he was having more knife fights.

 

On Thursday morning, Patrick grabbed the wrong shade of foundation in the drugstore while he was buying allergy medicine and condoms. It was too dark for him, but he was too lazy to go back to the store and return it. Besides, it could come in handy.

 

On Sunday night, Joe was out with one of his sisters and Patrick was back on the couch, with three blankets and a hoodie. The boxers still had the hole in the ass cheek though. He was even holding his notes open this time, because he had a music theory exam the next morning. Which was why he was watching VH1’s _Behind the Music._

 

The doorbell rang, so Patrick grabbed the crumpled bills he’d counted out for the delivery guy, shed his blanket cocoon, and opened the door.

 

It was not the delivery guy, or Joe.

 

It was Pete, holding a black trash bag in one hand and what smelled like Patrick’s pad see ew and pineapple seafood curry in the other.

 

“Hi,” he said. “Do you just not wear pants ever?” He was wearing a shirt today, a faded Metallica shirt and a black and blue striped beanie. He’d elected to pair it with sweatpants patterned with bats, a bold choice, though Patrick wasn’t one to talk.  

 

Patrick blinked. “It’s Sunday. Did you steal my Thai food?”

 

“Oh. Yeah, I told the delivery guy I was coming in and paid him.”

 

“Oh. Uh. Are you? Coming in. And thanks for buying my dinner?”

 

Pete shrugged, and gave him another lopsided smile. Patrick suddenly and vividly remembered the taste of Pete’s lips and blushed.

 

“I owed you. But now you have to share. Also, I felt bad that I made you pause _It’s Always Sunny._ Hey, can I put this down? It’s really hot.”

 

 “What? Oh, yeah, sorry,” Patrick opened the door and Pete slouched into the living room. He put the food on the coffee table and kicked his trash bag over to the couch. Patrick knelt and started opening the food containers while Pete dodged floor blankets on his way to the kitchen. Patrick heard him start opening drawers.

 

“The forks are next to the stove. How was dinner with your mom? Also what’s up with the trash bag?”

 

 “Thanks,” Pete said, appearing with two forks and a handful of napkins. “It was good, she said I looked nice and that she was proud of me. So thanks for that. The bag has your clothes in them. I washed them,” he said, clearly proud of himself. Patrick concealed a snort by taking a huge bite of noodles. He pushed the curry and rice towards Pete.

 

“Thanks,” Pete said again. “There’s, um. Also some extra blankets in there. You looked cold.”

 

“I did?”

 

“Um, yeah,” Pete gave him a weird look. “You were wearing like. Eighteen blankets when you opened the door last time. And this time. Are you sick or something?”

 

“Oh. No. I just like blankets,” Patrick mumbled.

 

“Okay. Uh. I also brought you a waterproof stereo.”

           

Patrick choked on a noodle.

 

“You--what? Why? Thank you?”

 

Pete looked embarrassed.

 

“I um. I hear you singing in the shower? You’re really good. And this’ll be easier than balancing your iPod dock on the toilet. Which I saw you do. So. Yeah. AndIalsogotyousomelipstick. Sorry. Because. I saw you were out. While I was digging through your stuff. Um. This is weird. I’m sorry.”

 

Patrick closed his mouth and lowered the forkload from where he’d frozen in surprise.

          

“Oh. Um. Thanks. Why--why’d you do all that? You didn’t have to. I can’t accept all that.”

 

“No, no! I just. I felt bad, that I barged in. And that I used your stuff. AndthatIkissedyouwithoutasking. And. I might have spent all week trying to figure out how to ask you out.”

 

“Oh,” Patrick felt his face heating up while his stomach started doing cartwheels. “Oh, um. Thanks. I mean, don’t be sorry. At all. Um.”

 

Pete perked up. “Yeah?” He asked, a smile creeping back on his face.

 

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbled, but he was grinning.

           

“Okay. You wanna watch _It’s Always Sunny_?”

 

“I caught up. But want to start _Ghost Adventures_?”

 

            ______________________________________________________

  
  
Neither of them noticed when Joe walked in on them making out on the stupid couch later (Pete tasted like curry) with Netflix asking them if they’d like to continue watching.


End file.
